Of Herbs and First Aid Spray
by Eloisa Abelard
Summary: An attempt to explain those random herbs and all powerful first aid sprays. Starring Claire Redfield. Rated T for mild language and some gore.


**_Everything Resident Evil belongs to Capcom...unless they've sold the rights._**

Claire twisted – for lack of better terminology – the man's hand, a satisfying crunch resonating through the corridor as the flaking, decayed fingers turned again towards him. He let out an absentminded grunt of pain, barely audible over the sound of teeth gnashing and gun fire as she took aim. He reeled back, his intestines unravelling towards the floor as he took another step forwards. Claire squeezed off another round and, before he could recover his minimal balance, emptied a third shell into his head. He slumped to the floor, a series of death spasms confirming he wouldn't move again. She didn't bother wiping the blood from her face or arms and the sight of grey matter on a wall no longer made bile rise in her throat. They had all been like this; fetid men and women (she refused to use the word zombie – according to Romero zombies were reanimated corpses…these were different) filled with a basal blood lust. But it was this one that made her realize she didn't care anymore who they were or what they had been – whatever it was, it didn't live in their vacant, cloudy eyes. The adrenaline rush remained though and she found herself praying that it didn't leave – on a primitive level it proved she was still human.

It was this 'fight or flight' mechanism that allowed her to carry on through three more rooms and passed two more of _them_ before noticing her aim was off and that her right shoulder was slumped. – _Shit, my collarbone _-, but it wasn't that; a soft, radiating heat was making its way up her neck and down her arm. Frantically she undid her red vest and ripped at the black top underneath, not noticing through her fear just how unnecessary it was – right on the cusp of her shoulder was a gaping red bite, jagged where that _thing_ had ripped her flesh away. The mouth is one of the dirtiest orifices on the human body and all around the wound was proof. The edges were crimson and as far out as an inch in every direction the skin was hot and swollen to the touch.

Claire had taken enough biology courses and seen enough late night medical dramas to know an infection was starting – it need to be cleaned, and fast. But…with what? She had found a first aid kit in one of the very first rooms she had entered but a Band-Aid just wasn't going to cut it. She needed an antiseptic – _there were those weird plants by the stairwell_. They had looked, albeit vaguely, like a Melaleuca graft – she'd seen one once in Australia, on a class trip Chris had grudgingly paid for. If she was right she could find a way to extract the oil – tea tree stunk like a bitch but was, if she could remember correctly, a decent antibacterial. She really should have paid more attention to the tour guide but the boy next to her had been so much more interesting – now she couldn't even remember his name.

Well, it couldn't hurt to try – the way was clear and just a few doors down was the S.T.A.R.S. office. There had been a water cooler there – she could get the dirt out and make a paste with that.

She had, by this time, been through the west wing of the Racoon Police Department so often, diddling with ridiculous puzzles, that she was about ready to call it home. In fact, she was actually starting to believe the old adage "like the back of my hand". Past a bloated cop, over the inside-out-man with the KISS tongue, around another corpse, and there it was – oddly green, oddly alive. She knelt by the plant and plucked a leaf, immediately recognizing the pungent odour that had once made her gag; it was welcome now. She stripped a good portion of the leaves then straightened up. The pain had made its way to her fingertips now and the sudden blood rush as she stood made her head spin. Before she could suppress, or register it for that matter, she vomited onto the cheap tile floor. It was a yellow bile, her stomach producing acid to fill her empty gut. There wasn't much more left in her, if she didn't get to the S.T.A.R.S. office soon she wasn't going to get there at all. Pulling herself together she staggered to the double doors and pushed them open.

---

The leaves crunched under the weight of a mug that read "Number 1 Dad". In a moment of almost ingenious improvisation Claire had made a rudimentary mortar and pestle using the back of the fax machine and some 'Barry Burton's' coffee cup. It was crude to look at but it was getting the job done, the oil make tiny rivulets along the plastic. The office was fairly large; it had to be from what Chris had told her about the Racoon operation. There was an alpha and a bravo company, each with roughly six members. Chris's desk had been the messiest, of course, but it's where she took up residence and she had to admit there was something comforting about the air around it, it smelt faintly Old Spice.

Grabbing a Kleenex from the desk opposite she cleaned the bite out with water she'd collected from the cooler. That in itself had been an enormous task as there was, well, there was hardly any left; it had taken quite a bit of painful shaking before there was an appreciable amount. She winced as the applied pressure scrapped dirt and scabbed blood off, then, throwing the dirty cloth into the garbage she turned back to her make-shift antiseptic. Grudgingly, she poured a small amount of the same water over the fax-back and with one sharp breath she slapped the paste onto the laceration.

A muted cry escaped into the room as Claire grabbed at both arm rests, the tea tree oil boring its way into the infection. Her feet tried to dig into the laminate flooring as, for the first time since her arrival, she allowed herself to cry. She slumped into herself, wishing Chris was there to tell her it would all be alright. When their parents had died and she'd locked herself in her room he'd kicked the door in and drove her out to a shooting range. _No sister of mine is going to cry over something that can't be changed! Aim the gun Claire and goddamn well shoot. _He'd looked so serious and, deranged. She hadn't gotten one round off that day, the site blurred and unsteady by tears and laughter.

_What if it was Chris that was dead now?_ Her mind wouldn't allow her to think it, instead it forced her hand to the first aid spray she'd found in her brother's desk. It made her smile now; Chris used to steal the occasional bottle from the high school, back when she was younger and it seemed she scraped her knees every other day. This formula was newer though and probably still under testing, she hadn't seen it in any pharmacy. But it made sense that the S.T.A.R.S. would be privileged to it, they were paramilitary. She could certainly see the military implications in it too. The older formula acted like a water-proof seal but this one boasted a new mesh-like technology that acted like a stitch and, at the moment, she couldn't imagine any other wound she had ever had that required a stitch more.

By now the gash had stopped stinging and with a quick wipe with the side of her hand she brushed the paste and accumulated pus off. The redness was receding and mobility was returning. Claire allowed it to air-dry for a minute then gripped the can and shook hard until the sound of moving liquid could no longer be heard. Holding the can a little ways a way she sprayed, the film immediately sealing off the bite from further exposure and applying a minute, but pain relieving, pressure. Sighing she leaned back into the chair; it felt better already.


End file.
